Illya's Journal
by Pickwick12
Summary: Illya writes to clear his head of ghosts and memories. This is an exploration of Illya Kuryakin's internal dialogue.
1. I Like My Women Strong

**I Like My Women Strong**

I like my women strong.

The strongest I ever knew was named Anastasiya. When I was a boy, she lived down the street from me in a tiny green house.

She couldn't walk. They said it was because of polio.

The other children laughed at her, said she was nothing. They left her behind when they went to the abandoned lot to play games.

She never cried.

She never even looked like she heard them.

She just smiled and kept on reading. She was always reading. Sometimes I brought her books from my father's library. She never asked me to read to her, but I knew she liked it, so I read to her for hours.

She could have looked at me, and I would have gotten the moon for her.

I said she never cried, but one day, when the sun was high in the sky and I was twelve years old— drunk on summer and life and the feeling that happiness was forever, she took the book out of my hands.

"Ilya, why are you here?"

I blinked at her. I hadn't thought about it. It was just what I did.

"I like coming here." I said, "and I like you."

She cried then, just that once. She never cried when the children were mean to her; she cried because I was kind.

I wanted to hold her, but I was twelve, and shy, and I didn't know then that girls are just people made of flesh, like I am. So I gave her the edge of my shirt to wipe her eyes on instead. They were light gray.

I never held her. She died that autumn. They said it was something to do with her disease. I didn't understand the reason then, and I don't remember it now.

All I remember is the feeling of her absence. When you lose something light and weak, you don't feel the loss that much, but losing her was like losing the weight that kept me anchored to the earth.

I haven't thought of this for a long time, but I guess I'm remembering it now because I held a woman tonight.

I didn't mean to.

She fell asleep on me, and there was nothing to do but to take her in my arms and tuck her into bed.

She held my hand, and she wouldn't let go.

I do not know anything about her, but I know that she is strong.

She is not strong because she wrestled with me or slapped me or told me where to get off. Those are silly things.

She—she danced tonight. Behind me, while I was trying to think. I turned and saw her, with her pajamas and her sunglasses.

She was happy. The chop shop girl knows how to be happy. That's why she's strong.

Anastasiya knew how to be happy—with her books and her smiles and her Illya. That's the truth of it, I guess. She wasn't mine; I was hers. It was more than enough to be part of what made her happy, part of her strength.

My borrowed woman made me dance tonight. She took my hands, and she made me sway to music. And she smiled. I made her smile. I was part of her happiness, part of her strength.

That's why, when the chop shop girl fell asleep, I held her. It's been a long time now since I've known that women are just people made of flesh like I am, and I never make the same mistake twice.

There are men who like easy women or weak women or docile women.

But I like my women strong, and I like to be part of their strength.


	2. Chess

**Chess**

When the memories come, with their waves of red anger and blue fear, I play Chess.

A long time ago, I watched men take my father away. I became their Pawn. I did what they said because I didn't matter, and I was too afraid to resist, afraid they would torture him, kill him, and make me share his fate.

Miserable, always moving forward, one square at a time. Then they told me to kill the American.

I did not like him when I first saw him in the fancy car with the little girl. He looked perfect, like a plastic man built in a laboratory. I liked him even less when we fought. I do not like to kill, but I'd have hardly hesitated to do so if ordered.

But then he saved me, and I saved him, and I watched him withstand what no person should have to bear. Somewhere between the punching and the lying, he became my friend, even though I do not have friends.

So I refused. I didn't do what they said. I defied them.

In Chess, when a Pawn reaches the end of the board, it becomes another kind of piece, a better one. There was a time when I thought that friendship made me weak, but sparing Solo's life made me stronger.

For the first time in my life, I felt like a Knight.

When I was a child, I loved to read about King Arthur. Not very Russian of me, but there was something in the legends that made me want to have a purpose bigger than myself, to be better than myself. You wouldn't think it to look at me now, but I was an idealist. A romantic.

Knights are the only Chess pieces that can jump over others in service to their Queen. She is the most important piece, the strongest, the key to the whole game.

I did not think I would ever have a Queen to protect. I did not think she would be small and clever and determined and infuriating. I did not think that she—that she would pick me when she could have picked the Cowboy, with his perfect hair and perfect suits and perfect manners. But she did.

She is the strongest piece, and I would do anything to protect her.

The King can't do much in Chess. He has to be protected by his Queen. I have always thought he was weak, but now I'm not so sure. My little girl's arms around me make me wonder which of us is protecting the other. I am supposed to make her feel safe, but that is how she makes me feel.

The Queen does not protect her Knights; she protects her King.

I am just a man with red and blue memories, who plays Chess when he's too afraid to live. I do not know why, but sometimes, when I look into the eyes of my chop shop Queen, I wonder if—somehow—she is making me her King.


	3. Checkmate

**Checkmate**

"You are very good at lying."

I looked down at my girl, sprawled out on her stomach over the hotel bed, swinging her legs back and forth.

Our flight to Istanbul was uneventful, and Waverley made us a couple again. The Cowboy rolled his eyes, but he didn't object. That's how I found myself in a room with her like before-the tiny, maddening person who never leaves me alone. I'd die before I would tell anyone, but I was glad.

"Yes," she agreed, idly flipping through a car magazine, "I am. Are you upset?"

I stared hard at the floral patterned bedspread. "Not as an agent; I'm glad to work with someone of your talents. As a man, I'm—upset that I was taken in." I was honest with her. I can't figure out how not to be.

She flipped over onto her back and grinned up at me, stretching her arms up behind her the way she does, like a self-satisfied kitten. "As an agent, I appreciate the compliment. As a woman, I'm glad I put you off balance."

She slipped off the bed, smoothed her pajama top, and came to stand in front of me. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"When are you going to kiss me?" She asked it like she was asking me what caliber of bullet is my favorite.

"I don't know," I said, feigning annoyance. "I've decided I'm angry with you after all."

She laughed. "Are you trying to tease me? You're very bad at it."

I wanted to say something funny, but I'm a serious man who's led a serious life, and I am no good at teasing and joking. She stood there in front of me, with her pajamas on and her hair up, and she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I reached out my hand, and I dared to touch her cheek with my fingertips. She covered my hand with her own and pulled it to her lips, kissing my palm. "I like your hands," she said. "Do you remember our first night, when I wouldn't let them go?"

I nodded. "I thought you were too drunk to know what you were doing."

She shook her head. "I don't remember much, but I remember holding your hand before I fell asleep."

"Come here," I said. She followed me into the front room of the suite, and I set her on top of the ottoman, like always, so she would be tall.

"Hello," she said, when we were face-to-face.

"Hello," I said. "When are you going to kiss me?"

So she did. Long and sweet and satisfying. A serious kiss for the serious people we are. A kiss for sorry and thank you and you're welcome and—perhaps something more was in it, too. I only know that when she pulled away to breathe, I smiled because I couldn't help myself.

She took my hands and put them around her waist. "Help me down."

When she was on the floor once again, she came close to me and melted into me like wax from a Christmas candle, closing her eyes and resting her head on my chest. Even though I am big and clumsy, she let me hold her, and I think she liked being in my arms.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked.

"No," I answered, stroking her hair, "but I will teach you to play Chess."

So we played. After a few moves, I could see that she was bluffing about not knowing how. She's good at Chess, very good. But not as good as I am.

"Checkmate," I finally said, though she'd surprised me with her strategy. "Why didn't you tell me you knew how to play?"

She looked up through her eyelashes. "I thought you never played with a partner."

"I don't," I agreed, "but for you, I make an exception." She smiled across the board at me, and my breath caught in my chest.

This morning, when we were downstairs having breakfast in the hotel cafe, Solo looked at us and grinned in that irritating way he has when he's about to say something obnoxious. "So, Gaby, how do you say 'I love you' in Russian?"

My girl looked up from her menu and fixed him with a serious stare. "That's easy. You say 'Checkmate.'"

I knew then that I would never escape from her, and I would never want to. Because she was absolutely right.


	4. Nightmare

**Nightmare**

Last night, I dreamed about my mother.

"Illya! Come and meet Peter."

She called me out of my room where I was studying, to meet a man in a uniform. I'd never seen him before. He was broad-shouldered and brutish, with short cropped hair and a sneering smile.

"Illyusha," he said. I've always hated the diminutive form of my name, ever since then.

I stared at him and didn't say anything, sizing him up in an instant. I knew I hated him the moment we met, but my mother never seemed to know what kind of men they were until they'd given us both a black eye or a bloody lip.

I woke up in the middle of the memory, gasping for air but glad to realize that I am now a grown man, and my mother's boyfriends are only horrible memories.

"Illya? Are you all right?"

Gaby came in. She was sleeping on the sofa in the main room of the suite. I'd tried to give her the bed, but she wouldn't let me, insisting that we switch off every night since there was only one.

"Of course," I said quickly. "I'm fine."

"Oh," she said, going over to the dresser and pouring a glass of water. "I heard you yelling in your sleep." She brought the glass over and pressed it into my hand.

"It was nothing," I lied. "I don't even remember the dream. I'm—very sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

I knew that she would leave. Everyone leaves. I am the man people leave, because I am too much, too big, too messy, and my memories are too loud. They all leave in the end.

But my little girl didn't leave. She didn't leave, and she didn't ask me anything else about the nightmare. Instead, she sat down on the side of the bed in her striped pajamas, and she took the hand that wasn't holding the water in both of hers, holding it tightly.

"I want to hug you," she said. "Can I?"

I stared at her. It was such an absurd question. No one wants to hug the Red Peril. But she sat and looked at me with her serious eyes and waited for an answer.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because," she answered, "I don't know what else to do."

It was an honest answer. I like honest answers, and I like my girl. So I put the water glass on the night table next to the bed, took a deep breath, and squared my shoulders like a man preparing for battle. "Very well, if you must."

She didn't laugh at me. Instead, she leaned over and wrapped her small, strong arms around as much of me as she could reach, and she held on tightly. I could hear her measured breathing next to my ear and feel her heartbeat against mine.

I can't remember the last time someone comforted me when I had a nightmare.

After a few moments, when my breathing was steady again, she let go and said nothing, hopping off the bed to go back to the other room. This time, I was the one who kept hold of her hand and wouldn't let go.

She looked back at me, and I smiled. "Thank you, Gaby." She only nodded, but the smile at the corner of her lips was all the answer I needed.


	5. Tears

**Tears**

"Ah well, excellent try, chaps. We'll reconvene tomorrow and have another go."

Waverley's voice, as it came through the phone, was as cheerfully polite as usual, but I tapped my finger against my leg and tried to breathe deeply. I needed to get out of there, as quickly as I could.

"Can't win 'em all," said Solo. "You two want a drink?"

"Sure," I heard Gaby say, as if she was a long way off, "but nothing too strong. Illya, do you want one, or do you want some tea instead?" She knows I don't like to drink.

"No," I said, willing my voice to be level. "I need some air."

With that, I walked out of Solo's room and down the stairs of the hotel, not caring that I nearly ran over a porter with a cart as I pushed my way toward the door and finally found myself outside, where the warm sun was beginning to set over Istanbul.

We failed. I failed. I was supposed to create a diversion so Solo could steal a set of plans, but it didn't work. They suspected. It was sheer luck that got us out of there without more injuries than Cowboy's superficial shoulder wound where a bullet grazed him.

I stood in front of the old hotel and tried not to think about what I could have done differently, but every time I shut out the sight of Gaby running for her life, my mind was crowded with images.

A small, locked room with one window. A bed with a thin gray blanket. A boy sitting on the edge of the bed, tensely listening, tapping his finger on his leg every time he hears the sound of a step, knowing that when the number reaches twenty-one, the door will open, and Alexei will enter.

"You stupid boy," he will snarl. "When will you learn? Mistakes earn punishment. Perfection is the only standard." And then the blows will start, one after the other, until the boy loses count in the middle of his tears.

 _You stupid boy_ , I said to myself. But now there is no one to punish me but myself.

"Illya," I heard a voice, and Gaby took her place on my left. Solo followed and stood on my right.

"What's the problem?" I asked, gritting my teeth.

"No problem, Peril," said the Cowboy, sipping his champagne. "We decided we needed some air too." They won't leave me alone, these two, not even when I deserve it. The three of us stood silently, watching until the sun disappeared and darkness filled the sky around us. Only then did the girl take my hand.

The boy in my memory is alone. No one touches him when he fails, except to hit him. And no one is kind to him when he cries. But the man on my right smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "Night, Kuryakin." And the girl held my hand all the way back to our room.

I don't think they saw the tears in my eyes.

* * *

 **A/N: This is based on Armie Hammer's own backstory for Illya. He said the Soviet government took him to train him when he was still a child because of his physical potential and that he was treated like an orphan and beaten and abused.**


	6. Drinking

**Drinking**

"You drink a lot," I said to my girl. She was pouring her third glass of something after a long day's reconnaissance work.

She grinned. "I have to drink enough for both of us, since you won't have any."

"No," I said, putting my book down, "I'm serious."

"Are you trying to tell me what to do, Mr. Kuryakin?" she asked.

"No," I said again, "but you drink a lot."

She turned away, her face toward the wall, a faint pinkness in her cheeks. "I—can't sleep if I don't drink."

"Oh," I said. I understand things like that.

I didn't ask anything else, but she kept going. "When I was fourteen, they took my mother. Came and got her in the middle of the night. They said she was a spy. I don't know if it was true, but she never came back. A few months later, a policeman came to my house and said she was dead. Ever since then, if I try to sleep without drinking, I hear them coming and see them take her away, and I—remember that I didn't do anything to stop them."

"I'm sorry," I said.

She turned her face back toward me. "Don't be. We all have stories like that."

I nodded. "That doesn't make them any less horrible." She crossed the room to fill her glass yet again. "Come here," I said.

She turned around and stood still in the middle of the room, her hair loose around her shoulders, a look of vulnerability in her eyes that I'd rarely ever seen there before. "Why?"

"Just—put that down and come here." She set her hotel glass down carefully on the desk and came to where I was seated in the room's one armchair. As soon as she reached me, I pulled her down and into my lap.

"What are you doing?" she asked, beginning to resist.

I opened my arms so she wouldn't feel restrained. "Trying to return your favor from the other night, when I had my nightmare."

"Oh," she said. "That's all right then." She curled up on my lap then, snuggling into my chest like a small child and closing her eyes. I held her gently, thinking about the little girl she must have been and feeling anger course through me at the thought of those who had taken her mother.

"Illya," she said after a while in a sleepy voice.

"Yes?" I asked.

"I think I might love you."

Her words knocked the wind out of me as hard as if she'd punched me in the gut. How on earth could a woman like her love a creature like me?

"You're drunk," I said, patting her back.

She sat up suddenly and took my face in her hands. "Do you love me?"

"Of—of course I do," I sputtered. How could a creature like me not love a woman like her?

"That's all right then," she said, repeating herself and laying her head on my shoulder. This time, she fell asleep.

I think she did it on purpose so I'd carry her to bed, but I didn't mind. Her half-full glass, abandoned on the desk, showed that perhaps, even if I couldn't make the horrible things go away, I could help her bear the memory of them a little better.


	7. Mine

**Mine**

"You said you loved me last night."

I said the words flatly, trying to gauge her reaction. If she laughed, I would laugh, and it would be a stupid, silly thing that had happened because she drank too much again.

But she walked over to me in the middle of putting on her false eyelashes, stood on tiptoe, and put her hands on my shoulders. "If I remember correctly, you said you loved me, too."

"You remember a lot from when you're drunk," I mumbled. I could feel myself blushing, and it irritated me.

"Practice," she replied, deftly applying lashes to her right eye. "I wasn't nearly as drunk as you thought I was."

"German Brat." I replied. "If you were so alert, you could have picked yourself up and walked to bed like a normal adult woman."

She was back at the desk by now, putting on her lipstick. "I didn't want to deprive you of the pleasure of carrying me around, since you enjoy it so much." She turned to me and winked, half-sarcastic and half-serious, in that maddening, irresistible way she has.

She'd bested me. There was nothing I could say to that.

I came over to her and stood still, my reflection appearing in the mirror like a guardian angel behind her. I touched her, and my large hands covered her tiny shoulders. "I will say I love you again if you want me to." I looked into the reflection of her beautiful eyes.

In an instant, she'd jerked away and turned around, moving away from me. "You really mean that. I—thought you were just trying to get me to be quiet so I would go to sleep last night."

"Yes," I answered. "I really mean it." I steeled myself for her to take back what she'd said.

My girl turned her back to me and breathed so heavily that I could hear every intake of air. "I—meant it too. I'm glad you weren't joking." I could see her beginning to blush, starting with her ears.

It seemed stupid for us to be standing a foot apart, not facing each other, two people who had just admitted we loved each other. I went to her and gently turned her around and found fear on her face. "What's wrong?" I don't like to see her scared.

She looked down, and I pushed her hair out of her face and behind her ear, so I could look at her. "Are you afraid of me?" I asked. I'd never asked her that. It was the horrible thing, the unspoken thing, the thing that terrified me—that I might be scary to the girl I loved.

She shook her head. "No, Illya, it's not like that. Love isn't smart. It makes people unsafe to each other."

I looked down at her, so tiny and so strong. "I don't believe you," I said.

"Why not?" she asked, curiously and a little bit wearily.

"Because," I answered, lifting her chin gently, "you make me safer."

All of a sudden, she smiled. All of the sadness and fear and doubt melted off her face, and she took her tiny hand and mirrored what I'd done for her, moving the hair off my forehead. "Hold me. Hold me before we go, because I want to remember this."

So I held her, and we breathed together, and I didn't think about the past or the future. I just thought of now and of how her warmth against me felt like peace and of how I wanted to hold her in my arms forever—and make her my wife.


	8. Dangerous

**Dangerous**

"What's wrong, Illya?" my girl asked in that direct way she has.

I looked at her, and for a hot minute I couldn't really remember what I'd been thinking about before because she was wearing a red dress. All too soon, however, it came flooding back.

"Nothing," I growled, my standard answer.

"Stop it," she said, crossing the space between us and folding her arms stubbornly. "There's something. I can tell."

I scowled down at her. "I should have put you over my knee and nipped this whole thing in the bud that first night."

She put out her first finger and waggled it in my face. "Don't change the subject. I want an answer. We're—together now, and I don't want things starting out with a weird feeling in the air. It gives me indigestion."

"Together, hmm?" I said, coming over to bathroom sink, where she was washing her face, and standing behind her.

"I said don't change the subject," she reiterated.

"Fine," I answered, letting feelings I'd been suppressing bring their darkness to the surface of my expression. "I was thinking about my training, about what they told us every day."

"What was that?" She wiped her face with a towel and turned to face me.

I cleared my throat. "They—said attachments are dangerous, that those of us who finished the training would be too dangerous to ever love or be loved. They made us dangerous on purpose."

My little girl took my hand and led me into the sitting room of our suite, pushing me into the chair and plopping unceremoniously onto my knee. "You listen to me, Ilya Kuryakin." She took my face in her hands because I'd hung my head, and she lifted my chin and made me look at her. "The only dangerous thing here is what you believe about yourself. It's all lies, all ridiculous. They made you strong; they didn't take your will. The man I see is the man who didn't take advantage of a drunk girl, who wouldn't kill when he was ordered to, because he knew his opponent was a good man. I see someone with great strength, who refuses to use that strength to do terrible things. That's the opposite of dangerous."

I blinked. "Is this what you think of me?"

"Of course," she answered. "It's not just what I think. It's the obvious truth." She's always so sure about things. I stared at her. It hadn't occurred to me that she actually liked me, that she actually thought I was a good man. All this time, I'd thought she loved me in spite of myself.

"Do you want me to hold you?" she asked, as pointed as ever. I nodded wordlessly, still too stunned by her revelation to form any kind of reasonable answer. She put her arms around me, and though she's too small to hold much of me, it still felt good. After a moment, I returned the embrace.

"I think you're the dangerous one," I teased after a few minutes, when my good humor had returned.

"Don't you forget it, Illya Kuryakin," she growled from against my shoulder, but her growl sounded more like a kitten than a tiger.


	9. Pygmalion

**Pygmalion**

She almost died today.

My girl almost died.

You'd think that would be a bad thing. You really would. But that's only if you didn't understand how it was. My Gaby missed a bullet by an inch, running away from a crazy man in a mask with a shotgun. And you'd think that was a bad thing.

But it was the greatest thing, because the moment she'd rounded the corner, missed the bullet, come sailing into my arms like a hurricane of arms and legs, I realized how it was. I realized that the best thing in the world is caring if someone dies.

They tried-those people who trained me-they tried to take that away from me, to convince me that the best thing is to feel nothing, that the rush of fear, the surge of hope, and the tidal wave of relief are weaknesses. But I know better.

My Gaby gave me back what they stole. She gave me back myself.

That's what those things really are, you know, all those complicated feelings that make my heart pound and my hands shake. They're me, the me they tried to rip out of my chest with their fists and their lies.

I couldn't give myself to my girl until she gave it back to me. I think that's what love is, or something like that.

So it was a good day, the day my girl almost got shot. It was the day I realized I had something to give her, the day I realized I could care because she'd turned me from a statue into a man.

Pygmalion, that Greek myth, is about a man whose love for his sculpture made her come to life. I reckon that's how it is, except Gaby is the sculptor, and I am not stone any more.

* * *

 **A/N: I've had lots of favorites and requests to continue this story, and I really appreciate it. I just made a professional writing deadline for a short story, so I'm back to the entertaining world of fanfic, which has the greatest audience in the world. This is just a short little chapter, but don't worry, there will be more.**


	10. Life After

**Life After**

"What would you be doing if you weren't doing this?"

I was sitting propped up in my hotel bed, and Gaby was using me as a pillow, absently playing with the jewelry she'd just taken off. She always launches into these random topics when she's tired after a mission. I used to mind, at first, but I'm good at reading people, and I saw that it was how she got herself to relax after a day spent in danger. So I talk to her, even when I don't feel like it. It's the least I can do for my little girl.

"Fashion," I answered readily. "I like clothes."

"And I like cars," she replied. "I'd be doing that for real if I hadn't been recruited."

I'd tried to sound casual, but I'd never actually told anyone that, and I was taken aback by how immediately she accepted my answer and the fact that she didn't laugh or make fun of it. While I was thinking through my amazement, she continued.

"A lot of men find that strange. Back home none of the boys wanted to go out with me because they said it was unfeminine to like engines."

I felt anger welling up inside me. "Was my Gaby upset by them?" I asked darkly, curling my big arm around her small frame.

She shook her head. "No, I thought they were stupid, like most men." I threw back my head and laughed. See, if I took the trouble to talk to her, I always got something out of it.

"So you think I could be fashion designer?" I hedged, looking down at her and meeting her eyes under her long lashes.

"Of course," she said, sitting up next to me so she could wrap her arm around my middle and lean on my shoulder. "You're much better at picking clothes for missions than I am, and you're very smart. You could be whatever you want to be."

"You think I'm smart?" I was baffled.

She nodded against me. "Obviously. That's why you were picked for training. You're a Chess champion, you speak lots of languages, do I need to list off all of your skills?" She was teasing me a bit, but I was serious.

"No," I answered, resting my head on top of hers. "Is just—I am used to people calling me stupid giant and monster, not smart man."

Gaby reached out and traced my jawline with her finger. "Not just smart—also handsome." She spoke softly, and I couldn't resist kissing her.

After a while, when she pulled back and rested her head on my shoulder again, I dared to say something I'd wanted to say for a long time. "When I think—about life after this work—I don't want to do it alone."

"Of course not." Gaby was getting sleepy now; I could hear it in her voice. "I'll always be with you."

I felt like somebody had given me the best present in the world, but I didn't want to react, because my Gaby was falling asleep on my shoulder, so I just held her as tenderly as I could and smiled to myself.

I will ask her to marry me. I didn't know when, but I am no longer afraid of the answer.

* * *

 **A/N: It's canonical to the original series that Illya becomes a haute couture fashion designer after he leaves U.N.C.L.E.**


End file.
